Colors of Christmas

by Olivia Newport

  Too late. Everything was too late. They’d lost their expansive apartment, and now Papa’s downtown office building was gone as well.

  For three days Astrid was terrified. Of the fires. Of losing sight of her family. Of what the future held. Of whether she would ever feel safe again.

  Finally, they left in the open bed of a German military truck. Astrid watched the burning city recede. She twisted around to face the other way, toward wherever they were going.

  Someone touched her, and Astrid jumped, her eyelids flying open.

  “Are you all right?” Sam said. “The drill is over. You’re free to go.”

  This is not that.

  Astrid swallowed, watching everyone making their way out of the safe room.

  “Do you need help?” Sam said.

  Astrid gripped the handles of her scooter. “Thank you. I can manage.”

  She was one of the last to leave and went straight up to apartment 231, any appetite she might have had for lunch consumed in the destruction of Würzburg.

  CHAPTER 8

  Tyler was particular about his breakfast cereal. A preschool-style nutrition unit now made him ask a lot of questions about food. He couldn’t read yet, but he recognized the nutrition label on the packages and demanded his mother interpret them. Sugary cereals were out, and high-fiber cereals were in. Carly chose something and dropped it in the grocery cart. She had only come in for three items—cereal, yogurt, and bananas—but had a dozen already and decided to stop there. Tyler was in school, and Carly’s morning was free of appointments. If she checked out now, she’d have time to go buy that Tonka truck that would amaze her son.

  She pushed her cart toward the checkout and chose a line. The cart in front of hers contained the makings of a holiday meal and enough baking items to underwrite a massive Christmas cookie exchange. Finally the checkout belt rolled forward, and Carly put her reusable canvas bags and distinctly non-holiday items on it. Her mother liked the little holiday touches. Carly could wait to see what her mother had in store for Tyler before committing to baking. She fingered her debit card while the checker scanned her items, quickly punching in her PIN when the time came and muttering her thanks as she gripped the handles of two bags.

  At the store exit, Truman stepped into her path.

  “Holiday shopping?” he said.

  Carly gave no answer but stepped to one side to go around him.

  Truman moved as well.

  Carly stopped, braced her feet, and imagined swinging a grocery bag at his head, followed by an uppercut swing of her fist.

  “What a coincidence running into you at the grocery store,” Truman said.

  Carly adjusted her grip on the bags. “I have a restraining order, Truman. You’re standing way too close to me.”

  “Am I?” He stepped closer.

  Another couple of feet and he would be close enough for a direct punch to the stomach.

  “Anybody can come in a grocery store on an ordinary Thursday morning,” Truman said.

  Carly eyed him—the brown bomber jacket, his hands in the pockets. She could put her groceries down and get her phone out of her purse. The police number was on speed dial. Carly moved both bags to her right hand, freeing up her left either for a punch or a phone call.

  The doors slid open as another customer entered the store, excusing himself as he walked around them as if they were an ordinary couple or two friends who ran into each other.

  “You’re not supposed to be here,” she said.

  Truman shrugged. “I need a loaf of bread.”

  “I’m sure they sell bread at the grocery store down the block from your apartment.”

  “I should have dropped you a note to tell you I moved to a new apartment,” Truman said. “About half a mile from here.”

  Drop her a note? Would he really send her mail? He was taunting her. He wouldn’t give her written evidence that the restraining order meant nothing to him.

  “You always said you didn’t want a long commute,” Carly said.

  “It turns out it’s not so bad.” Truman extended a hand. “Can I help you with your groceries?”

  “No, thank you,” she said. “Shouldn’t you be at work?”

  “Shouldn’t you?”

  “I’m trying to get there on time. You’re not helping.”

  “What happened to us?” Truman said. “We used to be so good together.”

  “Truman,” Carly said, “we were never together. We worked at the same place and had lunch a few times. That’s not the same as being together.”

  “We could be together. We’re compatible. We have the same taste in movies and music. We both like a good run.”

  “Truman.” The bags weighed heavy, hanging from Carly’s hand. In another minute, she would have to shift her grip. This wasn’t the first time Truman violated the restraining order. The night calls were bad enough, but showing up in person was the worst.

  “Did you follow me in here?” she asked, though she felt certain how he would answer.

  “Like I said, I need bread. This is the closest grocery store.”

  If he lived close to this store, then he lived within three miles of the home Carly shared with her mother. Carly racked her brain to try to remember if she had ever told Truman her mother’s first name. With the exception of one movie, they’d never seen each other outside of the physical therapy center where they both worked, and she had met him at the theater that night. How did he know to move to this town under a guise of innocence? The phone book was no friend in situations like this.

  “Then maybe you should go on and get your bread,” she said. “As you can see, I’m on my way out. I don’t have time to chat.”

  “At least tell me how Tyler is doing.”

  Carly stiffened. “My son is fine.” He was a happy little boy, and Carly was going to make sure he stayed that way.

  A man in a blue shirt and navy tie came out from behind the customer service desk. His tag said he was Nate, the assistant manager.

  “I have to ask you not to loiter here,” Nate said. “You’re blocking the entrance and exit. Perhaps you haven’t noticed that you’re making the door open and close.”

  “I was just leaving,” Carly said, taking the fleeting distraction to step around Truman. Surely he wouldn’t inflame the incident with a witness standing so near.

  Without looking back, Carly raced through the open door and to her car. Fortunately it was only four parking spaces away from the store. Several items tumbled to the floor as Carly dumped the bags on the passenger seat. She ignored the cascading groceries, started the car, and drove. Truman hadn’t exited the store by the time her tires squealed out of the lot.

  His calls at night were so frequent that Carly had given up reporting them to the police, but she did call in every physical encounter. She took a random turn and drove six blocks into an unfamiliar neighborhood before stopping to pull out her phone and dial. Reporting one confrontation never stopped the next one from happening. If Truman really had moved, they might even have his latest address in order to stop by with a friendly reminder about the terms of a restraining order. Truman wasn’t stupid. So far, he stuck to public places where anyone was free to go and it would be impossible to prove it wasn’t coincidence. Even if Carly managed to call the police, Truman would be gone by the time they arrived. It was as if he could smell a squad car coming from a mile away. But once again she reported the circumstances of Truman’s behavior.

  Carly scanned the street. Presuming that the man she’d seen in Target was Truman and that he owned the vehicle she’d seen that was his dream car, she watched for the SUV. She didn’t know this part of town well, but he would know it even less. Truman said he moved to a new apartment. This street was all single-family residences. Nevertheless, she wouldn’t take a direct route home. The last thing she wanted to do was lead him to her house or to Tyler’s new school or her new job. This was the third job change in two years. The more she moved around, the harder it wo
uld get to find another job. She certainly hadn’t expected to work in a senior community where all her patients were at least seventy, but she wanted Sycamore Hills to work out.

  When she first met Truman more than three years ago, they bantered around the physical therapy center like old pals. Tyler was just a baby, not even walking yet, but Carly was never without fresh pictures of him. Truman was assigned to be Carly’s primary assistant in executing the therapy plans she crafted for her patients, and he was ready and able to do what she asked— and plenty more than what the job required. Truman asked how Tyler was, offered to bring Carly a cup of coffee while she did paperwork at a desk, made sure she got safely to her car on dark wintry nights, bought a bigger lunch than he needed so he could share with Carly.

  He’d been so different than Tyler’s father—who was a huge mistake. That relationship had moved too fast and had no legs underneath it. By the time Tyler was born, Carly didn’t know where his father was anymore.

  Under other circumstances, Carly might have received Truman’s overtures on another level. But she was a single mother, and her focus was on her child. The mistake with Tyler’s father was hers alone, and her son was not going to pay for it the rest of his life. Figuring out how to be a mother was complicated enough without the complexity of a romantic relationship that might or might not work out. Truman was a thoughtful friend, but that’s all Carly wanted at the time—a friend. She’d told Truman this several times, and it hadn’t stopped his kindnesses. In fact, his gestures increased.

  Then came that Thursday in the third week in April.

  Truman had taken the day off work, something he rarely did. Their manager was always reminding him that he was going to lose his vacation hours if he didn’t start using them. At the end of the day, Carly left the building and her heart nearly stopped when her car wasn’t parked where she’d left it that morning—in the spot where she left it most mornings. She didn’t see it anywhere in the employee section of the lot. It was a no-frills car that was only slightly more reliable then than it was now. Who would steal a car like that?

  But it was gone.

  And then Truman rolled into the lot with it, grinning. He resisted answering her questions about how he’d gotten a key, waved off her indignation about his deception, and awaited her effusions of gratitude for changing her brakes and replacing her starter and battery without asking for a penny. The next day, she gave him a check and started looking for a new job.

  And then one day Truman turned up outside her new place of employment.

  She changed jobs and changed Tyler’s preschool.

  And Truman dropped by her workplace just to say hi.

  She changed jobs again.

  If Truman didn’t get the message this time, with a restraining order in place, she might have to move out of her mother’s house. That would break Tyler’s heart and would certainly complicate the question of reliable childcare when Carly needed to work late or go in early. Despite the circumstances of Tyler’s birth, her mom was over the moon for the boy and sometimes rearranged her own work schedule to be with him when Carly couldn’t. Three generations in one household had its advantages. Everyone was happy. It was working.

  And now this.

  Even in the face of a restraining order, Truman had morphed from kind to creepy.

  CHAPTER 9

  Astrid couldn’t remember the last time she played a real card game with other adults. Since Alex and Ingrid became parents, she had played Go Fish and Old Maid too many times to count. When Betty knocked on her apartment door with an invitation to play, Astrid politely declined. But Betty persisted, and now Astrid sat at the round table in the wide second-floor landing trying to remember the rules of Rook. Poor Fern was her partner. No doubt Fern was more accustomed to a partner who knew what she was doing.

  A middle-aged man made his way down the hallway, pausing to greet, touching a shoulder gently, laughing, offering a somber nod. It all depended on the person he encountered. The distraction he provided Astrid was no help to her Rook game. When he came close, he placed his hands on the backs of two chairs and leaned in to observe the game.

  “Hello, Pastor Russell,” Mae said, not taking her eyes off the game.

  But Astrid glanced up. Pastor Russell?

  He met her glance and offered a hand. “I’m Russell Gaines, the chaplain around here.”

  Astrid had always pictured chaplains as elderly men in dark suits who made the rounds visiting people in the hospital. But Russell couldn’t have been more than fifty. His dark hair had only the faintest suggestion of graying, and he wore tan pants and a navy polo shirt.

  Astrid shook his hand and introduced herself.

  “She’s new,” Fern said, shuffling cards to deal for a fresh round. “She’s only been here three days.”

  “Then I’m doubly glad to meet you,” Russell said, his eyes on Astrid. “I’m always available for conversation, and we have a simple morning service on Sundays and Bible studies on Thursday afternoons in the community room. We’d love to have you join us.”

  Astrid nodded. “Thank you.” Sunday mornings, without a car and the church she had called her own for decades now miles away, would never be the same. She could at least give Russell’s service a try.

  Her gaze shifted past Russell and down the hall, focusing on nothing in particular.

  Growing up, Sundays were family days. Papa always planned outings in advance. They might walk around Würzburg or ride the train out to the forested area, where they tried never to follow the same trail two times in a row. Papa always had his harmonica at the ready, and Mama sang. During the summers, Sundays might find the family at relatives’ homes in a tiny village in the Bavarian Forest or on the Inn River in Mühldorf near Munich. In both places, Astrid and Harald—Uta was still too little—found endless ways to amuse themselves. A weathered trunk full of old pictures. Gathering blueberries for a pie. Playing with their cousins. Swimming in an icy stream.

  The one thing the family didn’t do on Sundays was go to church. Astrid’s parents had soured on church before any of the children were born, and their choice had nothing to do with Hitler’s opposition to any organization but his own.

  Mama and Papa did their best to protect the children from the deteriorating conditions around them. If one of the men on their block hadn’t been seen for a few days, they said he was away on an important trip. If Harald asked questions—the same ones Astrid was too uncertain to ask—Mama would go to the grand piano and play a lively tune that the children knew. Checking their survival bags became a game. Astrid never told Mama about the friend at school who cried every day for a week. No one had to ask why. Her father was gone, and Astrid didn’t believe he had gone on an important trip. She watched the clock every day after school, her own heart ticking toward the moment her father would safely return for supper.

  The family had a radio, but it was rarely on. It was bad enough that the children were familiar with survival bags and bomb shelters. They didn’t need the barrage of Hitler’s language and German war news when they were in the relative safety of their own home. As hard as they tried, Mama and Papa couldn’t control everything.

  Every family lived in fear in those days, whether the parents talked about the war or not. Windows had blackout shades. Sometimes Astrid stood with her back pressed against the wall and her head turned to the side, her eyes squinting as she tried to see through the tiniest of slits in the shades. There were no streetlights. Sometimes, when he came home from work, Papa paused to greet one or two other men before slipping into their building at the last minute. Every time he did that, Mama made Astrid move away from the window. No one was allowed to be out after dark, and interior lights went out at suppertime. Everything was subject to inspection. The German SS officers arrested fathers in the neighborhood who might have whispered a word against the Nazi regime, and they were never heard from again. One hushed phrase or inflection could destroy a man’s future, and no one could be sure who had given h
im away. That was more than enough to make families hunker down to keep their families safe and not voice a political stance. Not ever. Astrid and Harald never dared to ask a question about what they saw happening around the city, even at school. Though her family had a lovely home, the increase in shrieking sirens sending people to shelters caused Papa to clear the living room and put down mattresses so the family slept together with a survival duffel for each person packed with food and clothing to last a week—and the photograph albums Mama insisted were an emergency item. They went to bed with sweat suits beside the mattresses so they could scramble into the clothes on top of their pajamas if a siren sounded, and then run for their lives down three flights of stairs. No one had a decent night’s sleep. Even school hours were interrupted by racing for an air-raid shelter.

  In the park that wrapped the city, where the ancient wall had once stood, some children had the yellow Star of David pinned to their clothing. Jude. One day the students with stars were not there anymore. No one explained where they went, and Papa and Mama had drilled into Astrid and Harald that they must never ask about such things. At school, mornings began with all students facing the framed picture of Chancellor Adolf Hitler and saluting.

  Astrid never told her parents that by the third grade she hated school. It wasn’t that she wasn’t interested in learning, but something as simple as an incorrect answer could provoke the humiliation of having to go to the front of the class, extend an open palm, and suffer several strokes of a bamboo stick. School was one more place where danger lurked.

  Starting at the age of eight, all children had to belong to the Hitler Youth. There was no choice. Even Mama and Papa could not protect their children from this. Youth training included hiking, camping, sports, marching, and singing the songs Chancellor Hitler approved. In particular, teenage boys had to be ready and strong to join the military when the time came. No other youth organizations were permitted, not even in church. Boys barely older than Harald were conscripted and sent to the front lines.